


Kilted Lovers

by blue_wonderer



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Boys in Kilts, Established Relationship, Kilts, M/M, That's it that's all this really is, but they totally do, sex and fluff, sort of - they probably haven't gotten to "I love you" yet, the disaster crew being disastrous but awesome, this is probably the least explicit smut I've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 03:23:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13941534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_wonderer/pseuds/blue_wonderer
Summary: “So,” Barry says conversationally, gesturing vaguely at the men of the crew. “You’re wearing kilts.”“Kind of cool, right?” Raymond says, pulling up a corner of the fabric with his thumb and forefinger andswishing.Or: Len is in a kilt, for Reasons that include excellent range of motion when riding elephants, and Barry isveryintrigued.





	Kilted Lovers

Barry Allen is a little thief who steals Len’s clothes _all of the time_. Len suspects that Barry often mistakes thievery for sentimentality, which leads to Barry pilfering his parka, his jeans, his scarves, and his sweaters as some kind misguided and sideways _“I miss you.”_

As someone who once staged heists in order to flirt with a certain hero, Len admits that he’s probably the one at fault for this misunderstanding. He certainly has no room to judge. 

So, Barry Allen is a little thief. But that’s only a tiny part of the story. It really begins with a kilt. Specifically, Len in a kilt. 

It starts just after the Legends completed another mission—another time aberration, but this one not actually caused by them, they’re pretty sure this time—and they re-enter the Waverider to find Barry Allen on the bridge, poking at the flight consoles. It's going on three months since Len last saw him, he's not sure how long for Barry, and he can't help but breathe a private sigh of relief when he catalogs Barry's relaxed shoulders, his healthy features, and other signs that point toward non-distress. And, since it's been three months, Len also can't help but notice how long and lean Barry looks in his tight jeans, delicious with his unconscious smile and windswept hair, and is that Len’s shirt that he’s been missing for the past few weeks? 

“How did you get here?” Amaya asks, voice all Justice Society of America authoritative. 

“Who are you?” Nate says, squinting his squinty eyes all… squintily like he maybe recognizes Barry or is also just thinking about how good Barry looks in that shirt—it _is_ a really nice shirt, one of Len’s favorites. 

“It’s Red,” Mick explains gruffly, pushing past them and towards the kitchen. He stops to give Barry a fist bump on the way and if Len thinks that his big, surly partner pausing to give literal sunshine puppy Barry a fist bump is maybe the cutest thing he’s seen, well, no one has to know. 

“Hey, Barry,” Jax grins, echoed by a “Mr. Allen” from Stein. 

“Gideon?” Sara asks, lips pursed, because she probably likes Barry well enough based on the stories from Felicity (and Len on the nights they play drunk chess together) but she also hates unplanned visitors in their _cloaked_ and _hidden_ time ship. 

“Mr. Allen is visiting from 2016. Also,” the AI adds a little miffily. “You forgot to lock me. Again.” 

“So,” Barry says conversationally, gesturing vaguely at the men of the crew. “You’re wearing kilts.” 

“Kind of cool, right?” Raymond says, pulling a corner of the fabric up with his thumb and forefinger and _swishing_. 

“You’re the Flash!” Nate exclaims in sudden epiphany. Len rolls his eyes. 

“We _are_ in Scotland,” Jax answers Barry, already unbuttoning his coat and heading toward the hall that leads to his rooms. He’s followed by a few others, including Amaya who seems to have decided that Barry was about as threatening as a floppy-eared puppy. 

“We’re in 1680,” Barry says, a little more distractedly now, and Len becomes aware that Barry hasn’t looked away from him since he walked onto the bridge. “They’re not even historically accurate.” He gestures, without looking, to Raymond who has undone his tie and draped his very twenty-first century suit coat over his arm, leaving behind a crisp dress shirt that is also a little incongruent with seventeenth-century couture. 

“I took creative license,” Gideon says, smug. 

Barry doesn’t seem to move. He’s at the captain’s chair and then he’s right in front of Len, the wind of his movement stirring the bottom of Len’s kilt. He grins at Len but his eyes… his eyes are heated in a way that has Len _very_ interested. 

“Oooh,” Nate says in a drawn-out whisper. At this point Len can’t bring himself to look away—not when Barry is looking at him like that, half in challenge and half in naked need. But he thinks he sees Nate lean in towards Raymond when he whispers, “They’re _together_ -together, aren’t they?” 

He hears Raymond clap Nate on the shoulder as they walk off, talking about something Len couldn’t care less about because Barry’s hands are on his sides, sliding beneath the coat, thumbing where his silken shirt is tucked into the snug waistband of the kilt. His eyes are hooded, and later Len is going to kiss where those long, pretty lashes flutter across pale skin. He’s going to trace his lips across those cheekbones, down that sharp jaw and come to rest on that long neck, where he’ll suck and tease until Barry’s nails scrape across his shoulders, until Barry unfurls beneath him and his words scatter into incoherent pleas and whimpers. 

Later. 

For now, he settles on a drawling, “See something you like, Scarlet?” 

Barry smirks briefly before leaning in for a kiss. It’s tentative and sweet, like he thinks Len could possibly be something fragile and precious, and in direct contrast to the way Barry’s hands tighten around his hips. 

“Not sure,” Barry murmurs against his lips. “Might need a closer look.” The second kiss is a little rougher, more demanding. “I’m gonna flash us to your room now,” he says because kissing sometimes makes him forget about question marks. 

Len’s back is suddenly shoved against a wall. There’s a tilting rush in his head, not quite vertigo, and he vaguely clocks in the familiar shapes and colors of his bunk on the Waverider. And then Barry’s kissing him again, hard and deep. Len can’t help but rove his hands over Barry, remembering every curve and edge of his body, trying to dig his fingers into Barry’s warmth and smell and feel and pull them over himself. 

Barry groans and pulls forcefully at Len’s jacket, tossing it aside. Len starts to loosen his tie and Barry impatiently untucks his shirt before ripping it open. The buttons clink and skitter across the floor. 

“Missed me?” Len asks, leaving the tie loosened at his neck, more interested in unbuttoning Barry’s shirt and jeans. He dips fingers past the waistband of Barry’s pants, digging his thumbs into Barry’s hips, spreading his hands and burying his fingertips into the flesh of Barry’s ass. Barry grinds into him, gasping when his hardened length rubs against Len’s through the material of their clothes. 

“Not sure,” Barry repeats, roughened voice on the edge of teasing. “Maybe you need to remind me why I should.” Len huffs a laugh, punishes Barry for his coyness by breaking their kiss, ducking away when Barry chases his lips. Instead, Len cards one hand through Barry’s hair, enjoying the full-body shudder of anticipation right before Len _pulls_. The reaction is breathtakingly erotic. Barry’s hips jerk, pink lips parting in a helpless moan as he tilts his head into Len’s grasp, silently begging for him to pull _again_ and _harder_. 

“OK,” Barry amends, breathless and strained as he kisses along Len’s jaw and neck. His hands keep running over Len’s sides and hips and back, fingers clutching and releasing the kilt. “Maybe. A little.” 

Len groans—so close already just from Barry thrusting shamelessly against him, just from feeling the seams of himself come undone at the scrape of Barry’s teeth on his collarbone, at the way he thinks he can feel Barry’s nails even through the rich material of the kilt. He hooks a leg around Barry’s, rolls his hips at the new angle and greedily drinks in Barry’s broken gasp. 

Barry reaches back, finds the hem of the kilt, fingers brushing the skin behind his knee as he slowly pushes up the material. Len pulls at Barry’s hair again as the smooth, cool material slides up his thigh, followed by Barry’s searing touch. 

Barry makes Len wear the kilt the whole night. When Barry reaches between them and jerks them off, Len still against the wall, Barry with his jeans at his knees, his head resting on Len’s shoulder, soft lips fluttering against his chest as he comes apart. When Len has one of Barry’s legs hooked over his shoulder, heels bruising his back as Barry clenches tight and hot around him, lips swollen red from biting them to keep the _“moremoremore”_ and _“pleasepleaseplease”_ from slipping out, long fingers clawing at the sheets as Len dares him to come untouched. Somewhere in between all of that Barry reaches under the kilt, pulls at Len’s cheeks, dips a finger between them and unceremoniously says, _“I want you to sit on my face.”_

It’s a very memorable reunion. 

*

In the early morning Len wakes Barry with devout and chaste kisses down his chest and stomach. Barry runs his fingers over Len’s head, hums so Len can feel the vibration under his lips. Len falls back asleep to Barry singing low and soft to him. 

Barry leaves mid-morning when Len is still lazy, limbs heavy with an achy satisfaction. Barry keeps wandering back to him as he gets ready, dropping kisses on his neck and shoulders, grazing fingers down the knobs of his spine, humming into his skin whenever Len stirs. But then he leaves and Len is left wondering for the millionth time just why the _hell_ he’s traveling time with the disaster crew when he could be in Central City with Barry possibly willing to be in his bed every night. 

He doesn’t realize the kilt is gone, too, until about two weeks later. The crew has to go back to 1680 Scotland because it turns out the aberration was not-so solved, and in fact they had made it all worse, forcing the crew to dress-up and ride in on elephants to save the day. 

(Besides turning Barry into an actual freak in the sheets, kilts are also really excellent for range of motion, Len notes, and decides to maybe wear more in the future.)

Gideon had to make him a new one because, of course, Barry had stolen the first one. He supposes it’s because the kid actually did miss him. 

But really, Len muses as he dismounts his war elephant with as much dignity as possible (which is very little, in case anyone is wondering, but Len is comforted by the fact that they all look like assholes except for Amaya), what would Barry actually _do_ with the kilt? Probably not wear it to work—he couldn’t bear to give up his skinny jeans, ratty sneakers, and ~~adorable~~ ridiculous cardigans. And Barry truly had precious little time between meta-human attacks and other world-ending shenanigans to wear anything but the Flash suit when he wasn’t working. 

(It’s at about this moment that he has the sudden image of Barry on his—their?—bed, on his knees, wearing Len’s kilt as he traces his fingers up the inside of his thigh to palm himself over the material and… well, his brain pretty much short-circuits after that.)

He turns to Sara, then, and smirks at her when she raises her eyebrows expectantly. “Formally requesting some shore leave, ma'am,” he drawls. She blinks at him as her face journeys through several expressions: suspicion, realization, and something that’s halfway between fondness and annoyance. 

“Request granted. Dork.” 

*

They don’t tell anyone they’re coming back, mostly because it’s a little hard to hail 2016 across the timestreams, but Len is starting to suspect that Barry somehow knew, anyway. This is mostly due to the fact that Barry is currently leaning against the doorframe to their bedroom, arms crossed, the hem of the kilt stirring slightly above his knees. He’s not wearing much else except for a knowing, playful grin. The waistband, technically, shouldn’t be worn that obscenely low to show off the jut of Barry’s hips. 

Not that Len’s complaining, given the way he’s still standing in the open doorway, bag still on his shoulder, and staring with his lips slightly parted in what passes as mouth-gaping stupefaction for him. 

“Thought maybe I’d return the favor?” Barry asks. Something writhes behind his expression, a glimmer of uncertainty—of insecurity, maybe—like he honestly doesn’t understand what he looks like to Len (or, hell, what he looks like to anyone), or that it’s going to be _Barry_ who leaves _him_ , who will eventually grow tired or too frustrated with him, never the other way around. Not while Len is still breathing, still able to hold Barry in his hands. 

Barry covers up the flash of vulnerability by coquettishly running his hand down his bare chest, over his abs, and then back up to thumb a pebbled nipple that Len finds himself wanting to lavish with his mouth and tongue. 

He lets his bag drop with a thump to the floor and he kicks the door closed before stalking toward Barry, who’s stretched out against the doorframe like unwary prey. He jerks Barry to him, lays his mouth on him, consumes him, groaning uncontrollably at just the feel of the soft skin in his hands. 

Len walks them to the bedroom, unable to really let go of Barry as they shuffle, too busy running his hands up and down his arms, fingers playing with the small hairs at the nape of Barry’s neck, tugging on the longer strands just to pull Len’s name from his lips. They stumble a little, Len catching Barry by the small of his back. 

He lets go of Barry long enough to throw him on the bed, if only to see the way his long legs sprawl, the way he pants from their kisses, and how the kilt ratchets obscenely high up his legs. 

Len crawls after him, slow and deliberate. He starts with his teeth just above the waistband of the kilt. Licks up to Barry’s navel where he kisses and sucks lavishly. Teases up to his chest, kisses around those sensitive nipples, tonguing the nub before sucking. He bites gently at the sharp collarbone, sucks on his neck until Barry’s bucking up into him, wild with Len’s touch. 

By the time he reaches Barry’s lips the mood and pace are both different from how it started, different from how they expected. Len kisses Barry tender and sweet, chasing the taste of his mouth and the little gasps that tumble from his lips. He runs his hands through Barry’s hair, tugging lightly, and groans when Barry clutches at Len like he’s drowning and Len’s the last lifeline. Today Barry doesn’t bite down on his pleas, doesn’t dam the flood of _“please please touch me”_ and the _“LenGodLenLen”_ behind his lips. His mouth parts in petition against Len’s jaw as his body quakes under him.

Len pulls away and they’re so close that he can name all of the colors in Barry’s eyes, if there were only words for them. Len moves his thumb, brushing it along Barry’s temple, and melts into the way Barry reaches up and curls his fingers into the back of his neck. 

“Hi,” Barry whispers. 

Len dips down to kiss Barry’s cheek. “You miss me?” Len asks, and it’s not a tease, not a drawl, but a whisper against the altar of Barry’s skin. 

“Yes,” Barry says, promptly and without circumspect. 

And what else can Len do but kiss Barry again and again and again? 

Len leans back on his knees, already feeling a little thin and empty without the press of Barry’s body. 

The kilt is pooled between Barry’s thighs. Len gently pulls the material up Barry's leg, until it’s covering pale skin. Len kisses the inside of Barry’s knee, right where the kilt, pulled taut, ends. Barry shifts, eyes burning, widening his legs to give Len more room, calf muscles flexing as he presses his heels into the bed. 

“Len?” He asks, quiet and hallowed, like Len’s name might be synonymous with something beautiful. 

Len smiles as he runs one hand down Barry’s thigh, over the material of the kilt, toward Barry’s hip. Barry reaches for him and Len rests their enfolded hands on Barry’s body. 

“Just unwrapping my favor,” he murmurs into Barry’s knee. 

And then he lets go of the kilt. The material slides with a slow rasp down Barry’s thigh, Len slowly following its path with his lips. 

**end.**

**Author's Note:**

> Set vaguely before Invasion! But it's AU (on account of Len being alive) so it's a bit of a general handwave as far as the timeline goes. 
> 
> Look I know Kilted Lovers is a bit of a silly title and an even worse pun but at least you know what you're getting, amiright? 
> 
> @wonderingtheblue on Tumblr. :)
> 
> Originally posted [here](https://wonderingtheblue.tumblr.com/post/171149002914/wonderingtheblue-for-coldflashweeks-valentines) for @coldflashweeks Valentine's Day challenge for the prompt "Exchanging Gifts"


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